


Cracked

by radioshack84



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crack, Gen, Holidays, Humor, Parody, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioshack84/pseuds/radioshack84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mr. Peanut gets on Mr. Reese's bad side, or this is what happens when John tries to help investigate a number after getting hit in the head.   Please see author's notes for further information/warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracked

**Author's Note:**

> A/N #1 / Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest or Planter's Peanuts. No offense to any party is intended, and I'm not making any money from this.
> 
> A/N #2: This was written for my sister as a Christmas gift, after a discussion about a holiday TV commercial for Planter's Peanuts. If you've not seen it, you can find it on YouTube by searching "Mr. Peanut Nutcracker". I think the story will make sense without it, but the commercial's only 30 seconds if you're so inclined. :) 
> 
> Warnings: Possibly-disturbing imagery of a PG-rated nature. Implied (temporary) death of an advertising icon.

"Finch, it's December 22nd. You've got over three months left to go until April Fool's Day," Reese said flatly, staring at the board that had a single familiar photograph taped to it. He then turned and fixed Harold with an annoyed glare. "Believe it or not, I do occasionally enjoy a day off."

"Does something in my tone lead you to believe I’m joking about this, Mr. Reese? We were given this man's number for a reason, and while I may have the capability to jest, the Machine certainly does not."

"Harold...that's not a _man_!" Reese exclaimed, gesturing to the photograph as he stalked away to pace around Finch's desk.

The computer genius adjusted his glasses and grimaced. "I will admit, this is anomalous behavior and I am unsure of the Machine's motivations -- or, in fact, _how_ this...individual...came to be in possession of a social security number -- but I think we would be remiss if we didn't at least look into the matter."

Reese shook his head. "Fine, we'll investigate, but if we don't turn up anything by tonight or if another number comes through, Mr. Peanut here is on his own, agreed?"

"Of course."

"I take it you have a starting point in mind?"

Finch nodded. "My initial research has turned up several associates of Mr. Peanut. Richard Sheller, in particular, stands out. After the incident that occurred last week, his relationship with Mr. Peanut is understandably strained," Finch said as he stood to tape three more photographs to the board.

John had to resist the urge to groan when he saw them. "Richard is a nutcracker? Really?"

Harold had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "You should be able to find Mr. Sheller at the opera house at Lincoln Center. Three hours, Mr. Reese. That's all I ask. If we don't find a connection to a larger plot, we'll stop looking and you can take tomorrow off."

Reese plastered on a fake smile. "I guess I'm going to the ballet, then."

\-----

"I don't believe it, Finch. There may actually be something to this."

"What have you found out?"

"That most nutcrackers prefer ham to nuts, for one thing."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

Reese tapped a couple of buttons on his phone. "Take a look at the photos I just sent you. It appears that our Mr. Sheller is involved in a secret consortium of some kind."

"Secret consortium...Mr. Reese, where did you get these pictures?" Harold asked incredulously.

"Don't tell me that you think _I'm_ joking now, Finch," John chuckled as he hurried through a narrow hallway and up a rickety staircase he'd found at the far back of the opera house. It had likely been used years ago as a hidden passageway to make it seem that an actor had appeared from thin air on the stage. Now, he was hoping it would lead him closer to the room he’d glimpsed briefly on the floor below.

Luck was with him. After ducking into a cramped corridor with a low ceiling that branched off of the hallway to the left and negotiating two tight right-angle turns that no doubt left the black material of his suit smudged grey with dust and cobwebs, the path straightened into a slightly-wider hallway with a series of small windows set into the wooden paneling at about chest height. Each window was overlaid by a sliding cover that was stained to match the rest of the wall. 

Reese glanced at the picture on his phone for reference, stepped over to the fourth window, and carefully slid the cover aside. He peered down into the backstage prop room he'd seen before through a doorway, but this time he had a much clearer view from just a few feet above and to the side of the area where everyone was gathered. A long table was spread with a feast of ham, gingerbread, sugarplums, and other sweets, and around it sat at least a dozen nutcrackers. Several were of the traditional style -- red military jackets with tall black helmets, black boots, long white hair and beards -- but a few stood out. One was dressed as a pirate, complete with an eye patch, hook hand, and peg leg. He seemed to be glaring across the table at one of the traditional-dress nutcrackers, who Reese quickly identified as Richard Sheller. Sheller was sweating bullets and looked terrified of the leprechaun nutcracker at the head of the table.

"-- order, gentlemen!" the Irish nutcracker spoke in a booming voice. "We need to keep on track with our discussion if we're to effectively neutralize this situation."

“Aye, but what’s left to discuss, matey? Richard has all but destroyed our cover with his rash actions of Wednesday last. Any attempt we make now will surely be met with resistance from Mr. Peanut's crew. I say Richard here should be walkin' the plank!"

The head nutcracker banged his mug of ale on the table to quiet the raucous shouts of agreement from the others. "While I don't necessarily disagree with ye, Jack, there's a bit o’ trouble with that idea. Richard has built a tenuous friendship with Mr. Peanut and his men. We go messin' with that further and we lose our only in with the organization. In turn, a lot o' furry little friends keep gettin' hurt. No, the Nutcracker Guild has always existed to keep the less-savory o' the legumes in line. We'll not fail in that regard. Mr. Sheller, ye still have an invite to Mr. Peanut's holiday party that's takin' place later this evenin', don't ye?"

Richard's jaw clicked shut as he hesitated, but he finally stuttered, "Y-yes, sir."

"You're going to make sure ye finish what ye started, or the Cap'n here might just get his way. Understand?"

"Y-yes, sir."

John shifted back a few inches, out of sight of the window. "You hearing this, Finch?"

"Every word, Mr. Reese. You’d best stick close to Mr. Sheller."

"I’m not so sure he’s the perpetrator, Harold. This group seems to have more information on our number than we do. If you can find out where this party is that they were discussing, I’ll plant a tracking device on Richard and head over early, see what I can turn up before he arrives.”

“I’ll send the address to your phone.”

\-----

“Damn, I think they saw me.”

“The ones in the shed?”

“Yeah,” Reese said, breaking into a run as soon as he was clear of the knee-deep snowdrift. He didn’t look behind him, but could hear the eerie sound of tiny feet in pursuit. He shoved his sleeve up and looked at his watch. “The party guests should be arriving anytime now. There are enough trees that I think I can hide until Richard gets here.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Finch asked anxiously.

“Crack some nuts,” Reese replied and finally glanced behind him. He’d gotten a fairly good head start, due to being several feet taller than his pursuers, but he knew he didn’t have long. He stopped and covered over his tracks in the snow as best he could before slipping into the wooded area that circled around the back of Mr. Peanut’s cottage. A bit of searching found a dense stand of evergreens, which he figured was his best bet. He crouched behind one of the smaller trees in the group, wanting more cover, but needing line of sight to both the cottage to watch for Sheller and the path that those searching for him would be traveling on.

The search party arrived before Richard did. It seemed they were clueless when it came to tracking, though, and gave up after a brief reconnaissance of the area where Reese had entered the forest. Most returned to their gruesome work in the shed, but two continued on toward the cottage without so much as a glance in John’s direction. As soon as he was sure it was safe, he followed them at a discreet distance, taking up position near a side window of the cottage that still afforded him a view of the road. There he waited...and waited. Sheller was a full forty-five minutes late, and looked no more at ease than he had while facing the leprechaun and the pirate a few hours before. Reese watched through the window as Richard entered and everyone turned and stared. 

Whether he was simply unnerved at the cold reception, or was honestly that poor of an undercover operative, John wasn’t sure, but Richard went in for the kill literally the moment Mr. Peanut’s back was turned -- and got a mouthful of Peanut’s cane for his trouble. All of the party guests shared a good laugh, but Reese saw the dark glance that Mr. Peanut exchanged with his second-in-command, Mr. P. Stachio, and knew an intervention was in order. He was waiting in the forest when Peanut and Stachio led Sheller out of the house through the back door and down the trail toward the shed. They’d bound the nutcracker’s arms to his sides with rope and taken his saber, but had removed the cane from his mouth.

“You know, Richard," Mr. Peanut said, "you could have made this easy on yourself and just let this imaginary little feud between our organizations go. _We_ weren’t going to bring it up again, that’s for sure."

“W-why would we let it go? You turned Sean’s best friend into a trophy on your wall. It’s the sworn duty of the Nutcracker Guild to carry out justice for such crimes.”

“ _You_ would have let it go just fine had O’Reilly not sent you here again, Richard, and don’t pretend otherwise. I just didn’t think Sean would be dumb enough to risk exposure of the entire Guild for the likes of a filthy _squirrel_. Especially not for one by the name of...what was it again, P?”

“Giles Nutkins, sir,” Stachio replied.

“That’s _right_!” Mr. Peanut said, letting out a guffaw. “Squirrels, I tell you. Not quite sure what his parents were thinking. At any rate, I guess the Guild still gets a free pass since all that’s going to be left of you when we’re done is a few paint chips.”

“But you will make a fine taxidermy pulp,” Stachio added gleefully.

“Now, gentlemen, no need to resort to violence,” Reese said, stepping out from behind a tree and directly into the path of the two nuts and their prisoner.

“Oh, it’s you,” Stachio said blandly. He looked at Peanut. “Al Mond reported that this joker was snooping around the shed earlier, sir. Shall I sound the alarm?”

“Not yet, P. He might not have actually seen anything. Act natural.”

“Sir?”

“Good evening, friend!” Mr. Peanut said with a smile, stepping slightly toward John. “It’s so good of you to come out for the party. You must have gotten a little turned around. The house is just on up that way, so feel free to join the festivities, have some trail mix, and my associate and I will be back around to properly introduce ourselves shortly.”

“Sure,” John said easily. “I just have one question, though. You and your men decimate squirrel populations to save your own kind, but have no objection if someone like me eats a handful of trail mix? Isn’t that a bit of a double-standard?” Reese slowly closed the space between he and Peanut as he spoke, until he ended up looking almost straight down at his adversary.

Mr. Peanut met his gaze evenly, or as evenly as he could with his monocle. “Oh, I object all right. There’s just not much I can do about it. I don’t have the resources necessary to take care of the entire human population, you see. I think I can manage one, though, if necessary.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket.

Reese reached for Stachio and easily plucked him away from the others. “And I think _you’ll_ find that I don’t take kindly to threats. Take your hand out of your pocket, slowly, unless you want to see what your friend’s shell looks like on the inside.”

Peanut glared, but did as instructed.

“Good. Now, untie Mr. Sheller, please.”

“Why should I? What guarantee do I have that he’s not going to finish what he came here for the minute he's free?”

“Richard?”

“I swear! I w-won’t do anything!”

“Pathetic,” Peanut said, and rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll untie him.” He moved toward Richard and started unknotting the rope.

Reese saw Peanut go for his pocket again at about the same time that a tiny foot stomped on his. In one smooth motion he scooped up Stachio under one arm and used him as a battering ram to knock Peanut out of the way. He quickly undid the last coil of rope. “Richard, run!”

The nutcracker didn’t need to be told twice, although a fast march would have been a more accurate description of his gait. Reese turned his attention back to Peanut, who was rocking back and forth on the ground, trying in vain to get up. A tiny black remote lay in the snow next to him, just out of reach, its single LED alternately blinking red and green. Using the rope to secure Mr. Stachio, Reese deposited him next to a tree a short distance away. As he turned back, he saw that Mr. Peanut had managed to roll to his side and was reaching for the remote. Reese put a quick stop to that, snatching up the device and pinning him back to the ground with his shoe. 

Mr. Peanut looked at him with an icy smile. “You’d better get out of here, too. I’ve already sounded the alarm. My men can’t be stopped.”

Reese could already hear shouts in the distance and he put on a cold grin of his own. “You can be, though.” He stepped down a little harder.

Peanut’s eyes grew wide and he gasped, “Sean sent you, didn’t he? Who are you?”

“You can call me John.”

“John what?”

“Reese.”

Peanut’s alarmed expression transformed into one of sheer terror. “No... _anyone_ but the peanut butter guy! Damn you, O’Reilly!!”

Mr. Peanut’s scream cut off abruptly with a loud _CRACK_ , and Reese felt a tiny foot stomp down on his for the second time. He looked toward the ground, expecting to see Stachio, but no one was there. It happened again, and he blinked, the world around him seeming to shift and twist, before suddenly morphing into what looked an awful lot like the library.

He jerked backward in surprise as another stomp coincided with Shaw’s face appearing directly in front of his. She smiled. “Much better.”

“What the hell was that for?” Reese growled. His hand moved of its own accord to his head, which was aching far more than his foot, despite Shaw’s high-heeled boots.

“You were snoring. I couldn’t hear Harold over all the racket.”

“I’m afraid that’s all the information I have at this point, anyway, Ms. Shaw,” Finch said, and glanced apologetically at Reese. “We know the last location of Mr. Nutkins and his associate. I suggest you begin your search there.”

Shaw shrugged and turned to go, kicking Reese’s ankle not-so-lightly along the way. “You coming or not?”

Reese just stared at her. “I got hit over the head this morning by not one, but _two_ Glocks, plus an assault rifle. I’m still seeing three of you. If your boot touches me again, Harold is going to have to contact Detective Fusco to investigate our number, and it’s Lionel’s first night off in two weeks so no one is going to be happy.”

“Jeez, lighten up, it was just a question.”

John grunted and closed his eyes, waiting until her footsteps had faded before he asked Harold, “Is our number’s name really Giles Nutkins?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s British. I wasn’t sure how much you’d actually heard of what we were discussing.”

“Me either. Did it have to do with squirrels, nutcrackers, or nuts in general?”

Finch frowned. “None of the above. Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Reese?”

“I’ll be fine as long as I don’t have to eat any trail mix for a long while,” John said with a sigh and slowly pushed himself up in his chair, waving off Harold’s questioning look. “Tell me about Mr. Nutkins.”


End file.
